My Story

Since I was 16, I dreamed of owning a boutique. I could never picture myself doing anything else. By my junior year of high school, I already knew I wanted to go to Kent State for Fashion Merchandising. Fashion gave me a sense of joy, creativity, and confidence. It was the one thing that felt like mine—the dream I carried with me through everything.

But in college, something happened that changed me forever.

I became a survivor of sexual assault.

When it first happened, I didn’t know what to do. In the first month, I told a few people who were dismissive. Then summer came, and I was back in my hometown without my close friends. I started hanging out with a bad crowd, and my self-worth sank to an all-time low. I truly didn’t care what happened to me.

That’s when it happened again. Just a month and a half after the first assault, I was assaulted a second time—by a different person.

I tried to tell the people I was hanging around with at the time, but instead of support, I was accused of lying. “There’s no way it could have happened again,” they said. I wish it were that simple.

After that, I stopped surrounding myself with destructive people. But even with better choices, I still carried the weight of both assaults in silence. For the next year and a half, I only told a few close friends. I bottled it all up inside, convincing myself that if I pretended long enough to be fine, maybe it would become true.

That illusion broke when I found out the same person who hurt me the first time had done the same thing to a friend of a friend. At that moment, I knew I couldn’t stay silent anymore. It wasn’t just about me. How many others were there?

So, I decided to go through the Title IX process. I thought the system would protect me. I believed the university had programs in place that cared about survivors and their safety. I thought I would be supported.

What I learned, painfully, is that those systems often exist more to protect the institution than the people they claim to serve.

The process dragged on for months—nine months, to be exact. By the time my hearing was finally scheduled, both the respondent and I were about to graduate. The university’s delays had run the clock out. And just like that, accountability slipped away.

The day before my second hearing date (which was set after graduation), the respondent’s attorney contacted mine with an offer: if I dropped the investigation, they’d agree to a no-contact order. Since the university had no sanctions to put in place for graduated students—unless they returned for further education, how convenient —I accepted. I figured at least I would get something after months of hell.

But once I dropped the investigation and we began drafting the agreement, their attorney stopped responding. Months passed. No signed agreement. Nothing.

As heartbreaking as it was to accept that there would be no accountability, no justice, no closure—I’ve since realized I’m grateful that agreement never went through. Because buried in its terms was a condition that would have silenced me: I wouldn’t have been allowed to speak about the investigation at all. And if you know me, you know that having my voice taken from me would have been the greatest punishment of all.

Still, I was left feeling like my trauma didn’t matter. Like I had been silenced twice: once by the assaults themselves, and again by the very system that was supposed to protect me.

It opened my eyes to a reality I wish wasn’t true: survivors are often brushed under the rug. The justice system, the schools, even the programs that look like they’re there for us—they rarely do what they promise. The burden is placed on survivors, who are already carrying more than enough.

That experience changed me. It gave me a new perspective, and honestly, a new purpose. My dream of being a boutique owner didn’t fade—but it grew into something bigger than clothes. Fashion was still my passion, but now it had to mean something more.

Why Nova Marie

Nova Marie was a name I had chosen long ago for my future daughter. I don’t think it will be her name anymore, but the meaning of it still resonates with me deeply.

To me, Nova Marie has come to represent my need to protect. The same protective instinct I thought would be reserved to one day pour into a daughter; I now carry into this boutique and the community around it. Protecting others from the silence, isolation, and dismissal I endured. Protecting them from believing their worth is tied to what happened to them.

And for those who have already experienced the pain I know all too well, Nova Marie represents comfort, healing, and the reminder that you can take back your power—piece by piece, day by day.

Fashion is my art, and now it’s also my tool for rebuilding. Through Nova Marie, I want to offer more than clothes: I want to create a space of healing, resilience, and community. A safe place where no one has to pretend to be “fine,” where you are seen, supported, and reminded that you are not alone.

I dream of leaving the world better—not just for my future daughter, but for yours. For everyone’s daughters. For anyone who has ever felt silenced, small, or broken.

Nova Marie is proof that even in the aftermath of pain, there can be beauty, strength, and purpose.

This is my story. This is my heart. This is Nova Marie.